


Wake Me Up Before You Go (But Please Don't Go)

by jackiefreckles



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Season 1, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:01:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28560978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackiefreckles/pseuds/jackiefreckles
Summary: Clarke stays in camp to comfort the delinquents after Charlotte's death.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 6
Kudos: 53





	Wake Me Up Before You Go (But Please Don't Go)

The night they lose Charlotte is the first of the worst nights. 

All the other nights have their trials--and the nights themselves are trials, sky too wide and yawning, cold earth threatening to swallow them whole. The air is getting frigid as late fall approaches, the ground becoming damp and uncomfortable in the wee hours of the morning. Most nights, Bellamy can see Octavia shifting in the dark. She sleeps in between Jasper and Monty, leeching their body heat, but they don’t complain, only moving closer to her as she lets out tiny, tired noises. 

In the daylight the circles under their eyes are dark as bruises, but in the soft glow of the moon and the flickering campfire their faces are peaceful and calm. Even the toughest and most dangerous of the delinquents look like children, sleeping with sweet dreams. 

Bellamy envies them. They’re not dreaming of Charlotte.

They don’t hear her cry out:

 _I can’t let any of you get hurt anymore_ , she’d said. _Not because of me._

The desperation in her voice would play in his head forever. The way she’d kicked off from the ledge. Gone, in an instant. 

A murderer.

A child. 

Add her death to all the things Bellamy will never forgive himself for--it’s growing every day--so just dash it down in his perfect, square handwriting, even though it’s not as if he’d forget it without the list. 

It’ll be just like the clang the stool made when he kicked it out from under Murphy, just like the wide, teary O of Murphy’s eyes as Bellamy hit the younger man over and over, trying to purge the pain. Just like the sound of Clarke’s screams in his ears as she fell to the edge of the cliff and sobbed: _no, no_... Bellamy had never heard her scream like that before, but he knows he’ll hear it again. 

The ground is breaking them, sound by sound, tear by tear, little by little. 

Clarke is standing near Miller on the outskirts of camp. She’s got a hand on his arm and even though Bellamy can’t hear them he knows what she’s saying: _Not your fault._

 _No,_ Bellamy thinks. _Not his fault. Ours._

_Or maybe just mine._

Because no matter how much he blames her for accusing Murphy and starting this whole goddamn mess, this isn’t really Clarke’s fault at all. Bellamy has control in camp, he could’ve made the crowd step down. They might not have been willing to listen to Clarke but they would’ve listened to him.

And he owed Clarke, he did, because she was the one who to give Atom tenderness and mercy--and he owes her, because she never said a word to anyone about the fact that Bellamy couldn’t do it himself. If he knows one thing about her, it’s that she never will say a word to anyone. Bellamy’s weakness is their secret, one he’s not sure if he’ll ever forgive her for knowing.

He’s shocked to see Miller put an arm around Clarke and pull her close--a quick, hard squeeze with gratitude behind it, and even more shocked to see her brush away a tear as she leaves Miller’s side. When she skirts the campfire to move towards Bellamy he knows she’s counting the delinquents sleeping there, and her face is drawn and tight. The number is too low; it’s not 100 anymore, and for every boy or girl they bury Clarke and Bellamy are losing little pieces of themselves. It might be the only thing they have in common, but it’s enough for him to meet her halfway with a quiet, “you okay?” and a passed canteen. 

Clarke gives him a wan smile and a hum that could mean anything, but she steps nearer to him and places her shoulder against his, whispering the question back at him: “Are you?” 

He assumes that for both of them the answer would be: _no. not at all. Not even a little._

And, he’s starting to think, _maybe never again._

Bellamy’s eyes scan the camp, rest on Octavia’s dark hair. Clarke follows his gaze and she clasps his hand. It’s unexpected. Intimate. Kind. He squeezes her hand in return. 

He won’t tell her he’s scared; that won’t help either of them. 

He won’t tell her he’s hungry; they can’t solve that problem in the middle of the night. 

He just stares at his sister, and wonders how the hell he’s going to keep her safe, and it’s as if Clarke reads his mind because her next whisper is of reassurance: “We’re doing our best, Bellamy.” 

Her eyelashes make shadows on her cheeks in the firelight, and he wants to say anything besides the words running through his head but “Are we?” tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

She drops his hand like it’s on fire. “I am. You can’t see that? All I think about all day is how we’re going to keep everyone safe.”

It’s not the first time Bellamy’s watched Clarke’s eyes fill with tears or her lips tremble, but it hurts more because he’s the reason, his voice spoke the question that cut her in two. He didn’t mean to wound her, but the day’s been long, Charlotte’s gone, and instead of slaying her demons she’d created more for all of them. 

Has it only been a few days? He was trying to help a little girl who reminded him of his sister, and this is where they ended up. 

One thing he’s learned in the past ten days: When things go wrong on the ground they go wrong spectacularly. Nothing spiraled out of control like this on The Ark, except for the night he took his sister to the dance…

...now he’s the one with tears in his eyes. He turns from Clarke and she grasps his hand again and pulls him away from the delinquents so they don’t have to whisper and her voice is low but strong when she tells him: “I know you’re trying your best, too, Bellamy. Just because our best doesn’t feel like enough, that doesn’t mean we’re giving any less.” 

“Don’t be so logical, Princess. It’s irritating.”

Clarke’s smile is small, but Bellamy sees that dimple in her cheek that makes his heart flutter. She usually saves that smile, those dimples, for other people, and he knows that he has yet to do something to really deserve it. 

Tonight, after everything, he still doesn’t deserve it, but she’s giving it to him. She’s generous that way.

“You can say that you’re giving everything,” he tells her brokenly, “you save lives--you hunted Jasper to the ends of the earth and then you spent the next four days curing him.”

Clarke wipes away another tear. “Right, Jasper. But not Atom. Not Charlotte. Not Wells.” 

“Those things weren’t your fault!” His voice raises a little, he sees Octavia flinch in her sleep, takes a deep breath, speaks quietly: “You’re doing your best, Clarke, everyone knows that. Give yourself a break. And Atom--Atom--you were what he needed. You gave him something I couldn’t. You were brave.”

It’s probably the kindest thing he’s ever said to anyone.

Clarke’s got tears rolling down her cheeks, wet lashes. She shivers in the cold night air and tells Bellamy: “Sometimes being brave is all we have. You’re plenty brave, yourself. You boarded the dropship for a chance to protect your sister. I admire you for that.”

Bellamy brushes Clarke’s hair back from her face, uses his thumb to wipe away her tears. “Every time I close my eyes I see a little girl swan dive off the cliff. Not Charlotte, though. Octavia.”

Clarke raises into a tiptoe to put her arms around him. His fingers tangle in her hair, and he wants more than anything to lose himself in this moment, but he can’t have that peace. It’s not meant for him.

But with her arms around him and her chest pressed to his, Clarke’s warm and full of life, and she whispers in his ear, “We can do this if we’re in it together. Keep Octavia safe. Keep them all safe. I know we can.” 

He would do anything for that to be true.

“Brave Princess, making promises you can’t keep.” he returns her tiny smile, “you know, it’s not easy being in charge.” 

“Good thing you were never really in charge, then.”

He laughs quietly against her ear before he pulls back to examine her face, deciding whether or not her promise of together is real. 

“You look as exhausted as I am,” she doesn’t flinch from his searching eyes. “You should get some sleep while Miller’s leading Watch tonight.” 

He shakes his head. “I’ll just have nightmares. You should, though. No point in us both being tired.”

“We could try together,” she suggests, offering it up lightly, like it won’t matter if he says no.

He can see the furrow in her brow, though, and he knows that turning her down will change just as much as laying next to her and praying for the darkness to wash over them. 

Clarke touches his face. “How about this? You try to fall asleep for a half an hour. I’ll tell you a bedtime story. If you’re not asleep by the time my story’s over, you can stay up and tell me a story til I knock out. If you’re asleep by the time I finish, I’ll sleep too.”

Bellamy watches Miller and the others, standing on guard near the camp. His eyes flicker over Octavia again, safely nestled between Monty and Jasper. Clarke is still standing so close the heat from her body is warming him, and everyone is safe, even if it’s only for a moment, so he nods towards his makeshift tent and then follows her under the flap. 

He’s not sure about their sleeping arrangements but Clarke immediately sits near him with her chin propped up on her fist. She gestures expansively towards the pile of hastily sewn blankets he normally sleeps on and says, “ Was I the very last person you expected to be here tonight?”

He pulls a blanket around her shoulders, tries for a joke: “I’ve learned to expect anything on the ground.”

“Is that so?” She’s teasing, but she leans close and kisses his lips lightly. “Were you expecting that?”

He wasn’t expecting that at all, and touches his own lips in shock. The corner of her mouth curves up as Bellamy pulls at her jacket, bringing her back, returning the kiss urgently. She pushes him back, murmuring, “there’s time for kissing tomorrow. Right now, we both need sleep. Now, lay down. I’ve given you a bedtime kiss, now I’ll give you a bedtime story.”

He doesn’t think he deserves either, but he’ll treasure them all the same. 

Clarke begins with, “Once upon a time there was a brave, noble knight named Sir Bellamy…”

He loves the sound of her voice when she’s not yelling at him. It’s raspy, like she smoked for twenty years before he met her, and sometimes there’s a little squeak, a catch to certain words, including his own name. 

In the velvet darkness of the tent, she spins the kind of tales he wishes he’d told Octavia. No Roman colosseums or roaring lions, instead a pretty princess with golden hair, pining in a tower for a world she couldn’t touch, having faith in a man she’s never seen to come and rescue her. 

It’s no surprise that he relaxes under the sound of her voice, but it is a surprise when he snaps awake hours later to find Clarke still asleep next to him, curled up like a kitten, her head on his chest. Bellamy can see weak light that means it’s only just sunrise, and he thinks of waking her. 

Doesn’t. 

The day will bring what it may, but for now--

They can sleep a little longer, together.


End file.
